


Dear Rosie

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mother Love, never dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9653141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: Mary left DVDs for someone even more precious to her than John and Sherlock.





	

Her mother’s smiling face, which she has no living memory of, fills the screen, and Rosie hits the pause button, not ready to hear her words just yet. She’s so beautiful, with the same blue eyes and blonde hair that Rosamund Mary Watson has, although of course she feels her mother wears both features far better than she does. She’s thirteen and insecure about her looks no matter how many people try to reassure her that it’s just baby fat, that her nose isn’t too big (thanks, Dad, for THAT unfortunate gene-sharing), that she’s lovely and always has been. Even Uncle Sherlock, who normally isn’t one for cosseting her, has told her rather crossly that although beauty is a social convention, SHE happens to be the epitome of the Western World’s particular convention. Besides, she’s got far more important qualities - strength, intelligence, and charm, all acquired directly from her mother’s DNA.

But it’s not enough to hear it from family, not when you’re thirteen and have no mum to either fight with or run to with your problems, the way all of her friends do. Hell, her best friend Abigail has TWO mum’s, which right now just doesn’t seem fair.

But at least her own Mum put together these DVDs, antiquated tech though it is these days, but she stubbornly refuses to just download them onto her tablet. There’s a comforting ritual about sliding the disk into the machine and waiting for it to come up on her screen.

There are nineteen of them. She’s watched thirteen but no matter how much she begs her father refuses to let her see the rest. “One for each year, Rosie,” he admonishes her every time she asks. Even when he’s had a bit much to drink (usually on her Mum’s birthday and their wedding anniversary and on the day of her death, but sometimes when he and Uncle Sherlock have just been celebrating a particularly rousing case), he never caves. But she always tries, desperate for more of the mother who died when she was still too young to remember her.

He’s allowed her to see the disk he left for him and Uncle Sherlock, though, where her Mum tells them to just go off and be happy or some rubbish. She kind of hates that one; Mum doesn’t even talk about her, it’s as if she made that disk as if she thought Rosie might be dead, too, leaving Uncle Sherlock and Dad to go off on adventures without anyone holding them back. When she said that to him, the first time she watched it and tried not to cry (angry tears, hurt tears), he started to lose his temper, but Aunt Molly was there and gave him the same look she uses to keep Uncle Sherlock in line, and Dad calmed right down. Calmed down and tried to explain that this particular disk, like the one he’ll never ever show her (and won’t even tell her what it’s about), wasn’t meant for her. “It was meant for me and Uncle Sherlock, Rosie. She was just trying to let us know we’d be fine, eventually. The day after we watched it the first time, I got the larger packet in the mail, the one with your disks. I watched the first one - you know, the one where she starts off by telling me to stop watching…”

“’Right now, John Watson, unless Rosie is in your lap and she’s actually one year old!’” Rosie quoted, half-laughing and feeling somewhat better about herself.

That was last year, six months before her twelfth birthday. She hasn’t watched it since that first time, although she’s tried once in a while. It still doesn’t feel right to her, but that’s probably because Dad’s right (not that she’ll ever tell HIM that) and it’s just not meant for her. Maybe she’ll feel differently when she’s older, but not right now. Not on her thirteenth birthday when she feels like all the world hates her, that she’s fat and ugly and stupid and _when will these god-awful braces come off her teeth??_

She shakes her head, hard, blinking away sudden tears. Her mother’s DVDs always make her cry at first, and sometimes when she rewatches them, but usually she gets past the first few seconds before the tears spill.

With a deep, shuddering breath and an angry dash of her hand across her face, she hits the ‘play’ button and settles back on her bed, an ancient, faded elephant stuffie in her arms, the one her mother got her before she was born and that lives on the shelf above her bed. Except for DVD watching days, when it settles comfortably in her arms.

“ _Dear Rosie_ ,” her Mum’s recorded voice says, the same two words every DVD so far has started with. “ _I hope you don’t hate being called that yet, although I did when I was about your age. Then I loved it again and then - well, later it was just Mary, but I missed it so much I named you Rosamund just so I could hear your Dad and everyone else call you that_.”

She already knows this; her Mum explained all that in the DVD for her sixth birthday, when she accurately predicted her daughter would start wondering why she’d been named after her. That was still something most people only did with boys. But she smiles anyway, happy to hear her mother’s voice, eager to find out if she’ll have anything to say that will make her feel a bit better about braces and boys not liking her yet (although she’s liked plenty of them ever since she was four and found out how differently they were put together from girls).

“ _My darling girl, I know how hard it is to be a teenager, even if I’m just a silly grown-up who can’t possibly understand. At least, that’s how I felt about my Mum when I was your age. I’m positive that if I were there with you right now we’d probably hate each other a bit, every now and then - just like I’m sure you hate your Dad every now and then. Just like you feel you’re alone and unloved and misunderstood. But I hope you remember that those feelings are just part of growing up - and if you’re lucky enough not to have them, I’m so happy and so grateful.”_ Her smile deepened and she gave a little chuckle. _“But I suspect I’m right about this, and I wish I could be there to console you and reassure you, to fight with you over your clothes and your chores and your homework. Oh, I’m sure your Dad is doing a fantastic job, but still…”_

She falls silent for a moment, looking pensive, then gives a little shake, the smile returning to her lips.  _“The thing is, Rosie, that thirteen is a tough age, we both know it. Your body is changing - has Dad done The Talk with you yet? Have you had your first period, has he taken you shopping for your first bra, or has he shucked that responsibility off onto Mrs. Hudson or Molly Hooper? Has he forbade you to date yet, or is he saving that for when you’re a bit older, stubbornly clinging to the idea that you’ll always be his baby girl? If he is, if he’s been difficult about any of that, try to forgive him. Men can be rather dense about things, especially when it comes to their daughters.”_

Rosie smiles at those words, remembering how embarrassed her Dad had been when she’d tearfully told him she needed to buy pads and panty liners, and how he’d taken her to Tesco’s but panically called Aunt Molly to help them while pretending it was just because he had no idea which brands were best. But he’d done well enough with the bra thing, sending her off with the lady to the dressing room to be measured and fitted, probably pretending he was just shopping for something to wear undercover for a case. Or so Aunt Molly had believed, the two of them giggling over it back at home while Dad and Uncle Sherlock were arguing in the kitchen over whether or not it was OK to keep spare body parts in the freezer. “Back at your own flat, yes, but not here!” Dad had shouted while she showed Aunt Molly the prettiest of the four bras she now owned.

“ _Your Dad loves you, Rosie, so, so much_ ,” her mother says when she rewinds the disk a bit to catch up on what she missed while lost in her memories. “ _So try to be patient with him, and try to be patient with yourself. Whatever you hate about yourself right now - and I’m sure there’s something, there always is, isn’t there? - try to listen when your Dad and everyone else try to reassure you. They’re not lying to you, and they’re not just being nice - especially Sherlock, pretty sure he’s never going to be the ‘just to be nice’ kind of person, no matter how much time passes!”_

Rosie giggles; nope, Uncle Sherlock has never been that kind of person, even if he’s a bit better at it now than he used to be, or so Aunt Molly says. 

 _“I guess all I have left to say, Rosie, is that I love you, and I wish I was there for you. God, I already said that, didn’t I?_ ” Her Mum’s smile is sad again. “ _I’m sure you’re rolling your eyes at me repeating myself, but it’s true. I do love you, so much, and I do wish I was there right now. But I know you’re in good hands, with your Dad and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade…_ ”

Rosie pauses the disk, tears once again threatening. Mum isn’t a fortune teller, of course, no matter how much she wishes she had been; she couldn’t know about Papa Lestrade and the stupid drunken lorry driver. Maybe next year, when it’s been more than eleven months since he was taken from them, she won’t feel so badly at hearing his name from her Mum’s lips. For now, all she can do is grab a tissue and wipe her eyes as the tears fall, knowing that they’re not just for Papa Lestrade but for her Mum as well. 

She saves the rest of the disk for later, knowing by the way her Mum’s talking there isn’t much left to it. Maybe she’ll watch it from the start with her Dad, which will end the way it always does - the two of them pretending not to cry and Aunt Molly scolding them for it later when she asks if they did or not. “You don’t have to be so damned British all the time,” she’ll snap, exasperated, then pull them both in for warm hugs. If Uncle Sherlock is there he’ll pretend to be jealous and want in on the hugging and they’ll all four of them just huddle together for a bit. Then Aunt Molly and Uncle Sherlock will go make tea so she and Dad can have a bit of time together, but they’ll all be missing her Mum.

They’ll always be missing her, everyone who knew and loved her, but most especially Rosamund Mary Watson…who loves her, but never knew her.

 


End file.
